


Between Love and Duty

by Kauri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair is depressed someone hug him, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, F/M, First Time Sex, King Alistair, NSFW, Porn with Feelings, Queen Anora - Freeform, Vaginal Sex, like mostly sex and only a tiny bit of plot, really really lots of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: The wedding had been beautiful.It wasn’t the small and simple affair he’d been promised. Or, perhaps it was. And he’d had no notion of what those words might mean to the Ferelden court.There’d been nearly three dozen in the wedding party alone. Two or three hundred in attendance, not counting the servants, and soldiers peppering the halls. Another thousand or so gathered beyond the palace gates, waiting to hear that the last Theirin had taken a bride.--When Alistair marries the Queen of Ferelden, he hopes there is a place for them between love, and duty.





	Between Love and Duty

“I’ve changed my mind.” Alistair whispers into her navel. “I won't do it. I won’t.”

She says nothing for a long while, just goes on doing what she’s been doing; stroking his temples and making soothing, inconsequential noises.

“You made a promise.”

“I made a promise to _you.”_

“One you’ve never broken.” She assures him, fingers carding gently through his hair. Her touch is light, like a benediction. “One you’ll never break.”

“Haven’t I?” He asks, voice hollow. “I promised to love only you. I _already_ have a child with another woman --”

“Oh, so you were in love with Morrigan, were you?” She flicks his ear good-naturedly.

“Maker forbid.” He makes a choked, disparaging sound. “She is the _absolute last_ \-- but -- well… I did it anyway.”

“To save us.” She insists.

“To save _you._ Likely if it had been my life alone, Morrigan wouldn’t have bothered.”

She laughs a little. A high, bright sound that has always reminded him of bubbles. “Morrigan is fond of you.”

_“Fond?”_ He snorts. “Poor dear girl, growing up in a Circle, never learning a proper vocabulary. _Annoyed by_ , fits better. Dislikes. Loathes. Unlikely to put me out if I’m on fire. In fact, _likely_ to have set me on fire _in the first place.”_

She flicks his ear again. Less gently this time.

_“Ow!”_

They fall silent, and he traces a circle around her navel with his fingertip, over and over. Despite his distress, it's an effort to keep the circles small. He keeps wanting to dip down and touch the small triangle of cinnamon curls at the crux of her.

“The wedding is tomorrow.” She reminds him gently.

“I won’t do it.” Alistair says again.

The fingers against his scalp hesitate as she thinks. “You gave Morrigan a child to save one life. Mine, if you like. How many do you think you’ll save by doing the same for Anora?”

“No, I’ve already prevented civil war by agreeing to become King. Anora is…” He shakes his head, frowning. “...another matter entirely.”

“Alistair--”

“Marry me.” Alistair says suddenly, rolling up onto his hands and knees above her. His cock hangs down between them. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I _will_ always love you. Please, marry me. Please.”

_If he’d done this before… if he hadn’t been such a coward…_

_If only…_

_“Please.”_ He insists, softly.

_Please, please, please._

But he knows, he already knows what she will say.

“No.”

He closes his eyes, _“You_ are the only woman I want as my Queen.”

“I know.” She strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, gently. “But how long would Ferelden be safe? A decade? Two? I could never give you a child, Alistair. And the throne needs an heir. _You know this._ And you’ve already proven…”

He rests his head against her belly, and thinks that if he were less of a coward -- or more of one -- he’d leave this land that had never had a place for him to its fate. Leave the kingdom. Leave the Blight.

_Leave._

And be with _her._

His heart clenches at the thought. Shame and longing tangling up inside him until her touch is the only thing that can soothe him. So he loses himself in that touch. Climbing up until he’s fully atop her, their hips pressed together. He’s already had her once tonight, but he feels his body begin to flush with _want_ at the feel of her bare skin against his cock.

He buries his face against her neck, and inhales. _Maker,_ she smells like sweat, and sex, and _home._ Tastes like it, too. His teeth scrape gently against her throat, and she shivers and makes the kind of noise that makes his cock swell. He gets a hand between his legs, eager. Touches himself, hand pumping, urging himself to full hardness, mouth still against her neck.

“Alistair,” she sighs beneath him, wriggles madly when his teeth close over a particularly sensitive spot.

“My love.” He murmurs back. _My only love._ And wedges his knee between her thighs, spreading her. He presses a finger up inside her, finds her still slick from their first time together. Still sticky with his spend.

He adds another. Rocks his palm against her, pumping, finds the nub of her clit with his thumb, and _swirls_ it. Firm swipes of the calloused pad of his finger that have her hips lifting to meet his touch. Her breath breaks around every stroke, and her nipples are hard and tight. He bends his head, pulls one into his mouth. The sound she makes is so ragged it sends a thrill through his balls.

She's close, and he knows it.

This wouldn't be the first time he’s slaked his lust, then spent the rest of the night coaxing pleasure from her body until she was a tangled, ruined mess. But tonight… tonight _he needs_ her.

Alistair clutches at his cock, guiding himself up and into her slippery sex. He makes an inarticulate sound as he enters her. His mind slips between the tight coil of heat building in his loins, and -- ridiculously -- to their very first night together.

Her hair had been shorter back then, and curled wildly in the humidity. She’d been rather sunburnt. The tops of her shoulders and ears had glowed bright pink, and he remembered how the sight had eased him, content to pretend she shared his blushes. And the skin that _wasn't_ sunburnt… _Maker._

His heart aches a little at how clumsy and overwrought he’d been. How patiently, and tenderly she’d touched him in return. Yet for all his experience from then, until now, he is still overwrought.

But she is anything but tender.

She writhes beneath him making urgent noises, trying to spur him, fingernails digging into his shoulder and scratching white-hot lines down his back. He’s not tender either. The care he usually takes with her has evaporated, and he feels rough, and blunt-fingered with need. He presses a sucking _bite_ against the sharp line of her collarbone, bucking hard into her.

She gasps, arching as he finds her breast. Grasps. Pinches. Urgent, and raw. He licks a hot kiss into her open mouth, seals their lips together to mask the ragged sounds that spill from her. She spreads her legs, trying to urge him deeper, but he hooks his hands under her knees, drawing them up and over his shoulders. There's a brief moment of gracelessness as his hips stutter, trying to find his balance whilst still fucking her. But he finds his rhythm after a moment, hips rolling steady as the seas.

She gasps his name. And he gives her back her own, whispered against sweat-slickened skin, and between the insistent _slap_ of flesh-on-flesh as he rides her.

There’s a brief flash of pain against the tops of his shoulders, as she drags her nails against him, and another, at his collarbone, as she fastens her teeth around tender skin. He swears, grapples briefly with her hands, gets them pinned on either side of her head, and pays her back in kind, marks the skin of her throat with his mouth. And works his way lower, fastening lips and teeth over the tip of her breast.

They savage each other in turns, and he revels in every print he leaves on her body. Let them linger for days. Let her remember his touch. Let him remember _hers._

He grips her hips, pulling her as close as possible, recalling with a heart-rending flash, how sweet it had been that first time he’d spilled himself inside her. He’d come with a roar, back arching, nearly bucked himself out of her. This time, he comes nearly silently.

_Nearly._

A rumbling growl lodges in the back of his throat as his pleasure peaks, and he presses his mouth to the curve of her breast to stop the sound. He can feel his abdomen clench, muscles flexing in helpless pulses as he spills.

She is right behind him, uttering a wavering cry that turns suddenly sharp as he fastens his lips over her bruised nipple. He suckles carefully, but firmly, grinding into the cradle of her hips as she breaks, and the sound of her cry become the syllables of his name. _Aah-lis-tair…_

His hips pump twice more, and he collapses against her breast, panting heavily.

He could so easily drift off to sleep. Heavy, and sated, and boneless with exhaustion. But his heart _aches,_ and he’s afraid -- irrationally -- that if he does, he’ll wake, and she’ll be gone. Vanished from his bed, _and_ his life. So instead, he tangles his fingers with hers. Presses a kiss to the back of each of her hands. And _swears_ to the Maker that this will not be the last time.

Not the last time.

Not the last.

\--

The wedding had been beautiful.

It wasn’t the _small and simple_ affair he’d been promised. Or, perhaps it _was._ And he’d had no notion of what those words might mean to the Ferelden court.

There’d been nearly three dozen in the wedding party alone. Two or three _hundred_ in attendance, not counting the servants, and soldiers peppering the halls. Another thousand or so gathered beyond the palace gates, waiting to hear that the last Theirin had taken a bride.

It was so very far from the wedding he’d once -- so very foolishly -- allowed himself to imagine.

He’d imagined a soft, grey morning near a tiny Chantry, in a town so small it wouldn’t have even had a name. They’d stand beneath an old tree dappled with blossoms, and magic. Attended to by this strange group of mages, and misfits they’d gathered -- those who’d stood beside him in battle, shed blood for him. And _her._ Her most of all. His grey-eyed love, tangling her fingers with his, and making promises to one another that rightfully, no Warden aught. But she’s there. And he’s there. And the love between them is such a solid thing, he could hold it in his hand.

This wedding, though… the one he’d actually _had…_

It had been a sea of velvet-wrapped strangers. Even the woman whose hand he’d held had been a stranger. _Anora._ All the promises he’d once dreamed of making he’d said instead to Cailan’s Queen. _I swear unto the Maker, and the holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days._

It seemed impossible to make such a vow considering he’s never even stood alone in the same room as Anora before. But his voice shook only a little on the promise. And he’d stumbled through the rest of the ceremony without thoroughly disgracing himself.

And now it is his wedding night.

And he has never felt so alone.

An entire wing of the royal apartments has been cleared out to give the newlyweds an evening of privacy. He wonders if this is Anora’s doing, and if the halls of the palace feel as huge and eerily silent to her.

He wanders. What else is there to do? (Except the obvious, and he cannot face _that_ yet.) There’s a decanter of sour red wine in his hands -- not the sweet, thin stuff the nobles drink, something that Oghren sent him off with. It’s incredibly bitter, and makes his tongue feel raspy as sandpaper, but it is _quite_ alcoholic, and that is all he cares about.

If he drinks enough, perhaps he won't care at all.

It is strange. The whole of his life he hardly owned a thing and now nearly everything he can touch belongs to him. The heavy wooden tables, and gilt mirrors that line the halls. The tapestries depicting mabaris, and battle, and the ruby-colored carpets that lay like blood spilt, beneath them. It is all his now. Every plank. Every stone. They all belong to the King.

The official coronation is not for another month -- a purely ceremonial event that Teagan has assured him will be neither small nor simple. But he’s been made to understand: his reign begins tonight.

_Andraste, preserve him._

He takes a large swallow of Ogren’s wine, lets the flavor of it linger in his mouth. That sharp, raw taste does not belong to this world of precision, and politics, and grandeur. Neither does he.

He belongs with _her._

Belong _ed,_ he reminds himself, and his heart hollows out completely.

He wanders through the empty halls feeling out of place, and drunk, and lost, and when he stumbles upon the throne room, he only feels worse. There are two of them. The thrones are made of dark sleek wood, and dark velvet padding. Expensive. Austere.

He kicks one of the legs with the toe of his boot. A petulant tap that doesn't even scuff the polish, but it makes him feel absurdly better, and bold enough to reach out and touch it. He half expects to activate some ancient enchantment, as though the throne itself knows he is a half-blooded imposter. But it’s...just _wood_ beneath his fingers. Shiny and a little cold. He runs his hand up the plush of the seat, then back the other way, leaving trails as he drags the tiny, velvet bristles out of place.

He sits. Not really meaning to -- not on the _throne --_ but there aren't any other chairs and he’s starting to feel queasy from a belly full of wine and anxiety. He’s still sitting there, trying to decide if he ought to get up or not, when he hears a voice in the throne room.

“It suits you.”

He looks up, startled. “Anora?” Her name still sounds strange in his mouth.

“My Lord.” She’s clad in a thin, shimmery, floor-length robe, and looks like nothing so much as a wisp in the moonlight. It moves like silver mist as she sketches a tiny curtsy.

He shakes his head. “I’m not your --”

“You sit on the throne. You are the King.”

“It's just a chair. Anyone can sit in a chair.”

It’s callous, and he knows it. The throne _matters_ to her. The kingdom matters to her. But Anora is a Queen through and through and if his words hurt her, she doesn't show it, merely takes a step closer, and reaches down, turning back the collar of his tunic, exposing the bruises, and bites along his throat. She touches one, gently.

It still aches.

“The other Warden,” she asks, “do you love her?”

His heart seizes up, and he sucks his a started breath. _“Always.”_

Anora nods, expression unchanging. “I loved Cailan.”

He grits his teeth together, feeling half a fool. He’d forgotten. In his desire to wallow in his own misfortune, he hadn’t stopped to consider that she might want this union as little as he does. But the man she loves -- his brother, his king -- isn't simply beyond her reach. He’s _dead._

Somehow, it makes him feel strangely better -- and worse at the same time -- that she might share his loneliness. His confusion. His heartbreak.

She keeps her fingers at the bruises on his throat. “You look very much like him. Darker hair. Darker eyes… but you have his chin.” Her thumb traces the line of his jaw. “And the shape of his brows. And his smile.” Her fingers linger against the corners of his mouth. “But you haven’t smiled much today.”

“I'm sorry.” He says. Unsure if he means Cailan, or that his heart is too full to find space for another. Or the whole, terrible state of the world that’s lead them to _this,_ and to this night.

“I'm sorry too.” She says after a moment. Her fingers slide carefully over the pale velvet of his tunic, across the span of his chest. “But you _are_ the King.” She says again, pulling back a little. “And you must do, as Kings do.”

A shuffling sound, and her robe parts, then slips entirely onto the floor, becoming a silvery puddle at her ankles.

His breath catches in his throat, and he blinks rapidly, dazzled by her sudden nakedness. The decanter in his hand nearly slips from his fingertips. He scrabbles to hang on.

Anora is lovely. Lovelier than he expected, in truth. The reserve, and severeness with which she usually carries herself is gone. She’s still incredibly composed for a woman wearing only wavering candlelight, but she’s -- vulnerable isn’t the right word. Nor is soft, though she _is_ softer in figure than any of the other women he’s lain with. The shape of her, less tauntly defined than those for whom battle is like breath.

She is unguarded. Simple. The Queen is gone, stripped of her raiments, and her rigidity, and only the woman is left. A beautiful woman, silver-gilt. With long, blonde waves, large blue eyes, and large ––

_Maker’s breath._

His face flames and he looks away, though it feels likes defeat to do so. “I’m sorry.” He says again. And isn’t even sure he’s speaking to _Anora_ this time. He shakes his head again, trying not to look at her. Trying not to stare at the dark blonde triangle of curls between her thighs.

Trying not to wonder what she might _taste_ like.

_Too drunk._ He thinks, blearily. Followed immediately by, _not drunk enough._

_Not nearly drunk enough._

He drains Ogren's decanter in three long, desperate swallows. Nearly chokes on the sharp, grainy silt at the bottom of the wine. He thinks that he ought to pray. But he’s unsure of what to pray _for._ What’s done is done, after all. And what’s he doing anyway, other than avoiding the path he’s been set upon? Avoiding his duty, and the Queen, and if he’s sure of anything, it's that Ferelden doesn't need a coward on the throne.

He lets the decanter fall drop to the floor with a heavy _clunk._

_He is going to bed the Queen of Ferelden._

Absurdly, irrationally, his mind slides to Morrigan. _Morrigan._ He nearly laughs. Remembering their first, their _only_ time together. Raw, and uncomfortable, and _intense._ He hadn’t exactly enjoyed it -- he hadn’t exactly _not_ enjoyed it either. She’d pulled sensations from him that were… _fierce,_ and startling. Pleasures tipped with steel. They’d coupled through the night, _demanding_ things of each other’s bodies, asking for nothing of each other’s hearts. Hers was a bed he’d been glad to leave.

And then there was Isabela, and that one gritty night at The Pearl, as much fantasy as memory. A bed too small to house so many bare limbs, but they’d managed somehow -- he, and the pirate, and his Warden love. Despite the cramped quarters, and abundance of whiskey that was at least partly -- mostly -- to blame, and Isabela’s insistence that he allow her to bend him over the bed, face down, arse up, and well… _that_ had been a first too. The night was a blur, too much drink, and too much sex, and in the aftermath it was entirely impossible to keep track of who had done what to whom.

But they’d wanted him -- in their own ways. Morrigan and Isabela. They’d wanted _him._

Anora… is half a stranger. And he has no idea what she wants.

And this -- _she_ \-- isn’t just some one night tumble. She’s his _wife._ Andraste preserve him, _his wife._

He doesn't even know what she eats for breakfast.

Or if she likes dogs.

He doesn’t know what her hair looks like when it’s wet. Or the shape her mouth makes when she sleeps. He hasn’t heard her laugh, or scream, or swear, or cry. Doesn’t know how many freckles she has on her shoulders, or what the skin between her breasts taste like. Doesn’t know how many fingers he can fit inside her before _oh-please-Maker-not-enough_ becomes too much for her to take.

He shakes his head, feels the wine swirl in his brain. A fog of lust and regret, and he’s not sure which is more unwanted right now. “I’m not Cailan.” He says, frowning. And for one split second, he rather wishes he was.

But Anora’s expression shifts, and all at once she’s looking at him like a _man,_ and not a ghost. “I don’t expect you to be.” She says, and steps forward, and into his arms.

His hands find the swell of her hips as she draws closer, and he wonders, blearily, if he means to push her away after all. He doesn't. Too startled by the sight of his fingers against her fair skin to move. Too startled pull back when she tilts his head up, and kisses him.

He’s kissed her before. At their wedding. A brief chaste brush that was over as soon as it had begun. A kiss of duty. It was nothing like this.

This is how _lovers_ kiss.

Her mouth works gently, coaxing his lips to part. She darts her tongue across his lips, and he makes a questioning sound, breath catching. Her hands press against his cheeks, thumbs stroking at his jawline, and slants the angle of their heads. The press of her lips against his is tender, and insistent, and he finds his mouth opening beneath hers. Her tongue slides against his, and he wonders if she can taste the sour rasp of Ogren’s wine. If she can, it doesn’t seem to bother her, as she licks carefully into his mouth, kissing him thoroughly enough to steal his breath.

He’s dizzy by the time she pulls back. And his cock is well on its way to getting hard.

_Traitor,_ he thinks, glaring at it, though he isn't surprised. He’d had no troubles with Morrigan, and he’d been half afraid the hedgewitch might try to bite it off.

Anora runs her fingers carefully through his hair. They’d given him a haircut before the wedding. The front is riddled with cowlicks along his hairline, and has a tendency to grow out faster than the rest. He wasn’t in the habit of bothering to keep it neat -- not when he spends _(spent?)_ half his time helmeted -- and the fuss they’d made of his hair seemed entirely un-Fereldan.

She leans down to kiss him again, with the same slow, languid thoroughness as before. It makes the wine in his blood sing. And when she presses closer, breasts sliding beneath his chin, full and soft, he finds his hands are itching to touch her.

He pulls back abruptly with a strained sound, confusion bubbling to the surface. Distinct even through the fug of wine. _He doesn't want… not really… but…_

Anora  presses her mouth over one of the bruises on his shoulder, and sucks hard. He makes a startled sound at the pain-pleasure of it. His fingers fly to her hair, tangle there, and he pulls at the pins, plucking them out gently, one by one, until her braid comes down, a thick coil over her shoulder. He picks it apart, runs his finger through the mass of golden waves. Her hair is long, nearly to her waist, it covers her breasts almost entirely, through the rosy peaks thrust through. He reaches to cup one, but stops just shy of touching her.

“I…” Somehow everything seems less confusing while he’s kissing her. So he tilts his head back, trying to invite another kiss.

Instead she drops to her knees, hair billowing gently out around her, and for one moment he’s certain she’s bowing, genuflecting before him to prove some point about his position. But she isn’t. Her hands move between his legs, cup the thickness they find there. There's no hesitation in her touch -- not like his -- and why would there be? Anora has spent half her life a Queen. And she touches him as though his body _belongs_ to her.

He supposes it does now.

As hers belongs to him.

_Maker._

The thought is arousing enough that for a moment he forgets himself. Lets himself sink into the sensation of her hand on his cock. She caresses him with one hand, while the other works open his laces. His cock springs out, fully hard, foreskin only half-drawn back, the flush on the visible tip bright pink, and wet looking.

She grips him at his base, and drags her open mouth up the full length of his cock. The thumbs of her other hand circle his balls, a teasing pressure that stirs something in his belly. He hates how much he doesn't hate this. Sensation, as it turns out, is just sensation. And his cock hardly cares who touches it.

He makes a slightly choked sound as she bends her head to suck on him, and pulls her back a bit before she can descend fully. “What’s your middle name?” He says absurdly, fingers clenched tight on her shoulders.

The corners of her mouth turn up. A small but genuine smile. _“Rowan.”_ Her hand around him tightens reflexively. “Yours?”

“I... don't have a middle name.” He shakes his head. His voice sounds a little slurred, and deeply apologetic. “I… didn't have a last name for while, either.”

Anora makes an amused sound. A real one, and the corners of her mouth pull back, for once without pretense. She has a small, pretty smile, this true smile of hers. “And yet obviously a Theirin.” She glances at his cock as she says it, and he blushes. She takes him into her mouth then, ruby head sliding past her lips as easily as anything. She sucks, drawing him deeper, and deeper, and he can't stop the ragged sound he makes when he slides down her throat.

_Maker, most women can't quite --_

_“Nnugh!”_ His hips buck, and he has the absurd urge to push her head down. But she’s already got the whole of his cock in her throat, and there _isn't_ further down to go. He feels very much like he’s betraying someone… one of them, somehow. But the _heat_ that fills him, claws at his insides, and he’s reckless enough, _selfish_ enough, not to care. Let it burn them, then.

_Let it burn them all._

He cups the back of her head. Not to push her down, but to keep her from pulling _back._ A moan tumbles through her, muffled by his cock. He can feel the rumble of it against his balls. He thrusts forward, just a tiny bit -- there’s hardly space enough to move -- and pulls her head back, not entirely off of him, he makes sure the tip stays in her mouth, but enough so she can take a shaky breath. Then he presses her back down, his own moan clenched tightly in his teeth.

He holds her head steady as he thrusts into her mouth. Carefully, at first, and then with less and less restraint as that reckless heat engulfs him. He feels a trail of saliva slide down his balls, feels his toes curl in his fancy, Ferelden boots, and then he feels nothing at all -- except that hot, greedy _need_ \-- as the pleasure _surges_ through his core.

“Maker, Anora!” He growls. Holds her steady. Holds her in place. His balls tighten suddenly, and he can feel the come at the base of his cock before he abdominals clench, violently, and he spills down her throat.

She swallows around him. Despite the awkward angle, and the way his hands press at the base of her skull, and the back of her neck. He thrusts up, just once more, with a deep groan of satisfaction, then sets her free.

He ought to feel embarrassment.

Or regret.

Or _something,_ beyond the lazy heat that still churns in his belly.

But Anora is still between his thighs, looking flushed, and a little dazed. Mouth swollen, and slick with his spend. And he reaches for her, without really meaning to, drawing her into his lap. Her legs straddle his thighs, breasts tucked beneath his chin. He this time, it is _he_ who traces the shape of her jaw, and pulls her down for a kiss. She tastes of sex. The sharp, saltiness of his seed scrubs the flavor of Ogren’s wine from his tongue.

Anora wriggles in his arms, making a breathless sound. And his cock throbs in response. It is the easiest thing in the word to slip his fingers into the space between their bodies, take himself in hand, and guide his still-hard cock to the opening of her cunt.

Anora’s eyes fly open, surprised.

Cailan was a legendary warrior in his own right. But he hadn’t a Warden’s strength. Nor yet a Warden’s stamina. And Alistair has a non-existent refractory period. He’ll stay hard through several orgasms if he’s aroused enough. And tonight –– maybe it’s the wine, or the loneliness, or the soft curves of Anora’s body –– he is nothing, if not aroused.

“May I?” He asks hoarsely. He can feel himself against her, a hair’s breadth away from breaching her. She is wet and warm, and he _aches_ , a throbbing pulse in his balls, but he pauses long enough to ask again. “Anora?”

She nods, eyes fluttering.

He wants to watch her expression as he presses into her. But this is not a night for restraint, and he feels his eyes slide close, and his head tilt back as he _drowns_ in sensation of filling her. He groans. Lets that tight heat carry him, lets _Anora_ carry them both. She tips forward slightly, arse raising, arms braced against the backrest of the throne. Her breath is shallow, and strained, and he wonders how long it’s been for her. Or if she’s had any lovers since Calain.

Or if she has any lovers now…

Something turns over in his belly. It isn't jealousy. Or anger. It’s a melancholy emptiness. A reminder of how little he knows of her, and how much he wants… Maker, he wants ––

His hips thrust up, and Anora makes a tiny sound of pleasure, so he does it again. And again. And again. Until he is grunting with effort, and Anora is thrusting back against him.

He doesn't _know_ her, so instead he tries to pay attention. Notices the way her fingers bite into his shoulders, and her breath comes fast, and broken. Notices when the pitch of her voice changes, and the _edge_ to her gasps become needy. Her thighs shiver, and when he slips a hand between them, it takes so little –– the pads of his fingers rubbing lightly across her clit –– and she breaks, burying her head against his neck to mask the sounds of her cries.

His fingers keep working as she shudders against him, and it isn't until he feels her begin to relax against him that he stands, keeping a hand carefully under her arse and another behind her knee, and backs her up against the nearest wall. She's barely settled against it before he begins to move. A full, rolling motion of his hips as she balances against him. Her hand flies up the wall, searching for purchase, but she caught, pinned by his weight and his cock, and there is little she can do guide them.

“Alistair…” She breathes. “Please…”

He grips her arse, and his hips take a life of their own, expelling all the coiled tension that’s been building in him for the past few weeks. The release of it –– almost as satisfying as orgasm –– fills him with a sudden bliss.

_“Maker, Anora…._ You feel…”

Her eyes meet his, and for a moment that dark blue gaze of hers is _warm._  

The sound he makes is unintelligible, even to his own ears. He gives one last, brutal thrust and comes. It’s like liquid lightning racing up the back of his thighs, and he barely notices Anora writhing against him, still pinned. He moves away from the wall, still supporting her weight. She clings to him inelegantly, sweaty and limpid. And when he deposits them both on the nearest rug, she immediately sprawls out on his back, exhausted.

He stands above her, panting, and still hard. His hand drops down to curl around his length, slick with their combined release. She’s bright-eyed, and flushed. The blonde waves of her hair stick to her neck, and her arms, and fan out around her head. She looks as disheveled as he’s ever seen her. But he wants to see her truly undone.

“Your _arse.”_ He growls into her ear. “I want your arse. I want it all.”

“Alistair,” her voice trembles, but her hips lift, just a little, and he takes that as permission, and moves at once between her legs, cock in hand. There should be oil. And time. And gentleness. But he has none of these things. Just the desire to burn away his lust, and be done with it, be firmly across the line where he might have –– even after everything –– turned back.

“Alistair…” She says again. And the way she says his name, like it's a foreign word, and the syllables fumble in her mouth, is incredibly arousing.

He presses forward, atop her, against her, and when the tip of his cock starts to breach her, she makes a bright sound he hasn't heard before.

He backs off, just a little. His own breathing is shaky. “Anora?”

“It's alright,” she pants, “I like –– _keep going.”_ Her voice shifts from something tired, but controlled into something entirely broken. Even her breathing is jagged around the edges.

He keeps his eyes trained on hers as he enters her. It is slow –– not because he wants it to be slow –– but she is unstretched, and he has no desire to harm her. Anora shifts, drawing her knees back, curling her toes, and by the time his hips are pressed flush against hers, a faint sheen of sweat has broken out between her breasts.

He doesn’t give her much time to adjust to the sensation, slides his hips back smoothly before filling her again. She cries out, hand reaching down to touch herself between her legs. He thrusts again, short, and sharp, and the heat and friction are so delicious that for long moments there is the motion of his hips, and little else.

The sound of her orgasm pulls him from some higher plane, and back into his own body. Her spine is arched so deeply only her hips and the top of her head touch the floor, breasts bouncing with the impact every stroke. He reaches up to grasp one as he rides her, feels the weight of it fill his palm. He leans down, mouth open, and presses an open mouthed kiss to the skin between her breasts, tasting the salt of her sweat, and the faint orange spice of her perfume.

She says his name again, or tries to. The sounds are little more than half-formed gasps, and when he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, they dissolve into moans.

He’s not far behind her. A few thrusts more and he arches tightly, and with a cry so loud it’s almost a cry, spills within her for the third time that night. All at once all the hurt, and anger, furious lust that has been sustaining him through the night bleeds out of him, like water from a punctured skin. He sighs, feels the _relief_ of emptiness after so much turmoil.

He pulls himself out of, and off of her as gently as he can. He sits beside her, knees drawn up, cock finally softening, and wipes at the sweat on his brow. He can tell the front of his hair is sticking up absurdly.

“Are you… Can I…” He makes an awkward gesture towards her but she holds up a hand, forestalling him. “I’m sorry.” He says, having nothing at all to say, and feeling very much as though he should say _something._ Should acknowledge, in some small way that they’ve just ––

“Your Warden.” Anora says.

He blinks, surprised.

“Fuck her, if you must, but be discreet.”

“I–– _what?!_ ”

“I will remind you that _our_ coupling serves a purpose.” She says sharply. “Ferelden needs a true Theirin, not more rumors of bastards.”

His lips feel stiff. It’s hard to tell which of her words hurt most. He thinks of his own father, some tall, bearded blonde with a crown of gold, and his mother, the King’s mysterious whore. They’re both faceless strangers –– even when he stares at the portrait of the old King they’ve got hanging in the palace Maric is unrecognizable to him. But the word _bastard_ is familiar enough. Heavy with the weight of rejection and _emptiness,_ and childhood memories.

He thinks of Morrigan, and some faceless, yellow-eyed babe, and feels his insides clench painfully. He wonders if that counts. The child was conceived before he became King –– even before he knew he was to become King.

But perhaps he is a true Theirin after all; built for betrayal. Built to be a father who can walk away from his own child.

He grits his teeth, watching as she draws away, and slides back into her robe with a perfunctory grace. The vulnerability and warmth in Anora’s eyes is entirely gone, and the mask is firmly back in place. The mask of the Queen. Composed. Distant. Whatever connection he'd felt slips away, and it _hurts,_ he realizes, deep in the pit of his belly. Can you ache for the loss of something you’ve never really had?

“Is that it then?” He asks hoarsely. “Is that what we are? Two people, bound together because you had the wrong last name, and I resemble the former King? And all of this,” He gestures distastefully, at the throne room, and the wooden tables, and gilt mirrors that line the halls. To the tapestries depicting mabaris, and battle, and the ruby-colored carpets that lay like blood spilt, beneath them. “All this, so I can fuck a child into you.”

_Maker’s breath, it sounds worse when he says it out loud._

_“What_ did you think this was?” Anora’s expression is entirely unreadable. “I am the last person you should lecture about the absurdity of requiring an heir who has _Maric’s eyes._ But _you_ are the _King of Ferelden_ now, what _more_ could you possibly want?”

“Is _kindness_ to much to ask for?” He runs his hands through his hair, the strange pomade they made him wear feels stiff beneath his fingers. “I don’t think I can survive without it.”

_“Kindness?”_ She shakes her head at him, slow, and measured. “The court will eat you alive.”

“Think me weak, if you like, but I _am_ a Warden. We know a thing or two about strength. And sacrifice. And I am well aware that I will likely make a better Warden than I ever would a King. But a man _can ask._ And you would have mine in return.”

“Kindness.” She says in a completely different tone. One he doesn’t recognize.

“For a start.”

Anora frowns.

“What I want,” Alistair says, “is to build a life with someone I love. And failing that, with someone who isn’t so…”

She raises her chin, waiting.

_“Indifferent_ to me.”

Her eyes are dark. “If you have so much disdain for this arrangement, then why are you here? That grey-eyed Warden, if you really loved her, _why_ would you leave her?”

It would have hurt less if Anora had stabbed him. Though it isn’t as if he hasn’t asked himself the same a hundred, thousand times.  “I’m here because I _trust her.”_ Alistair says, rising to his feet. “She’ll stop the Blight. She will. And if she––” Fear swoops through him, and he has to ball his hands into fists to keep from shaking –– old God baby, or no, she still has to battle an archdemon, and very likely _without_ him. “She’ll stop it.” He says firmly, glaring. “And I will not see a land she bled to save tear itself apart from its own stupidity. There will be _something left of this world for her. Ferelden_ will be there for her. _I_ will be there for her.” He adds in a hoarse voice. “And if I thought you could do this alone, I would be _out there_ with her.”

He takes a ragged breath.

Anora is silent for a long while, and perfectly still. The halls of the palace are so quiet, that Alistair thinks of screaming.

Then Anora’s posture shifts, just slightly. “Kindness, you said.”

Alistair nods, and feels some knot in his heart ease in the smallest way, though his voice is still terse. “I did.”

“Perhaps I might manage such a thing.” Anora says softly. “For the sake of Ferelden.”

When she sweeps from the room with a swirl of her diaphanous robe, Alistair blinks, dazed by his first royal victory, too much sex, and _way_ too much wine. He looks around. There’s come on the seat of the throne, and a bit more on the carpet, and a thick white line of it all along the wall. He thinks with some guilt on the servant who has to clean up after the royal lovemaking. They’ll probably scoop everything up into a gilded cup and parade it around the kingdom –– proof of the King’s virility.

_The King._

_Maker’s Breath._

He looks forlornly at the empty decanter on the floor. In the end, he thinks, it wasn't enough wine after all.

  


**Author's Note:**

> So I have feelings about Alistair and Anora -- I had him marry her during my first playthrough, even though I romanced him, because I wasn't sure how the game was going to end, and I wanted to keep him safe. She is, frankly, the better option to rule, but I'm slightly obsessed with the whole "sex for duty" trope. This came out less hopeful than I initially intended, but I think, Alistair learns to love them both, in time.
> 
> Also, Alistair is hung. #bigTheirindick
> 
>  
> 
> Extra special thanks to my beta Valyrias who is mostly into Inquisition, but humors me anyway. :) <3


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